The heels of his black boots clicked densely on the dark stone floor as he followed behind Ser Donal. He had decided to dress all in black, not to mourn Benjamin, but to mourn for himself. It had been less than half a day, but it did not take a genius to tell that something within him had died last night, that last piece of privileged innocence he had still clung to now turned to ashes in his mouth. His black cloak flapped quietly behind him as they moved swiftly, coming to a steep set of spiral stairs. It was then he realized that he had never been to the dungeons before; they were definitely just as ominous and depressing as he thought they would be.
Torch in hand, the older knight guided them down the steps, the trek rather long. They traversed in silence, but he could feel the unspoken tension brimming in the air, the questions Ser Donal very clearly had brewing within his seasoned mind. Aryn could not blame him. He hadn’t so much as spoken with the man for over six months until this morning, and he knew just how jarring it must have been to discover that the young prince he had known did not exist anymore.
Finally they reached the bottom of the staircase and swiftly headed down the corridor. The stench of the place was pungent, almost rancid. No doubt there were some cells that housed only rotting corpses. He would have to be far more naive than he already was to think his father did not have numerous enemies, enemies that he would most certainly see fit to carry out their punishment in the form of a horrible, slow death.
Distant, low cries and groans of misery echoed throughout the dungeon corridor, making his hair stand on edge. He felt his chest tighten slightly as Ser Donal placed a precautionary hand on the hilt of his sword and quickened his pace.
“We shouldn’t be down here, Your Highness,” he mumbled tensely. “Your father would have my head if he knew–”
“My father is already getting someone’s head today,” he cut in. “The least he could do is allow me to get some answers from the owner before it rolls.”
Sighing heavily, the knight remained silent, continuing to guide him towards where Benjamin’s cell was. The closer and closer they got, the faster his heart raced. He wasn’t sure exactly what he was going to say to him, or ask him, but all he knew was that he needed something. Closure, perhaps? Or justification? A small part of him did still feel guilty for his current grave predicament. But only a pathetic, cowardly man would want to take someone’s life because they finally decided to stand up for themselves.
“Right there, on the left,” Ser Donal pointed out quietly. “I’ll be waiting here when you’re done.”
He nodded in understanding at the knight before turning to face the end of the hallway, his sharp blue eyes drifting towards the cell. His breathing unstable, he walked slowly towards the bars, the personal prison cast in deep, oppressive shadows. A figure laid huddled on the ground, covered in what appeared to be a torn up cloak. As he stepped up to the iron bars, the toe of his boot dislodged a small piece of stone, sending it skittering across the floor. Benjamin bolted upright with a gasp, whipping around to face him. With what little light there was, he could still make out the absolutely terrified expression on his dirtied face. That was when he realized.
They had tortured him.
Save for the cloak, he was naked. His body was covered in bruises and gashes, his face swollen and bloodied from merciless beatings… the way Benjamin cowered from him told him everything he needed to know.
He stood there for a moment, silent, as they locked eyes. It was becoming difficult to breathe as innumerous thoughts and memories raced through his mind, some older or newer than others. A deep, dark part of him raked his eyes over the nobleman and felt satisfied, vindicated.
You deserve this. For everything you did to me. How you made me feel.
I was just a child.
“A-Aryn?” he stuttered, his voice filled with helplessness and fear.
“Benjamin.”
His voice was cold and bitter. It almost made him sick to his stomach as he realized what its likeness was.
“Aryn please…” he crawled towards the edge of his enclosure painfully, wincing as he dragged himself across the jagged stone floor on his hands and knees. “Please you have to help me.”
A cruel, disbelieving scoff escaped his lips. “Help you? After everything, you want me to help you? Benjamin I always thought you were dense, but this is a new level of idiocracy.”
As his filthy hands wrapped around the bars, his stomach sank. He was missing fingernails.
“Aryn please, you have to believe me,” he begged. “It wasn’t me.”
He furrowed his brow in deep confusion. But confusion quickly turned to fury.
“I saw the note, Benjamin,” he stated, his voice raising. “There is no getting out of this now. At least have the decency to be honest with me in your last moments.”
The nobleman collapsed forward, racked by hopeless grief. He watched with subtle disbelief and disgust as tears flowed freely from his dull eyes, dripping to the floor.
“Aryn I swear… I swear on my life, on my father and mother and sister’s lives, I did not send anyone to kill you. Please, I don’t want to die…”
“How did you know where I was?” he pushed, his voice low and merciless.
Benjamin sighed sharply, the noise filled with hopeless frustration. “I already told your father’s men, I didn’t. I had no idea where you were last night, I wasn’t even thinking about it because I did not send an assassin to kill you.”
Red slashed through his vision as he lunged at the bars.
“It was in your handwriting!” he snapped. “Stop lying to me!”
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
“Fine, don’t believe me. I’m already dead anyway, even if I didn’t send him,” he mumbled defeatedly, his voice dripping with bitterness.
“What else have you done?” he demanded.
Benjamin scoffed. “Only spoken the truth.”
He felt the back of his neck grow hot as his impatience began to boil over. “What are you talking about?”
The nobleman’s expression twisted as he stared at him, morphing into a look of hatred and disgust.
“That Oliver Farrington overheard most of our conversation at the ball, and proceeded to account it to your father in great detail upon their return last night. You think Aleksander would still let me live if I had insinuated that his son is a deviant?”
His skin grew hot, to the point where it felt as if he would burst into flames. The breath entering his lungs did so difficultly, his chest quickly tightening and his head beginning to spin as he realized what had transpired. A far more characteristically smug, condescending smirk now made its way to Benjamin’s dirt-covered face.
“I always knew there was something abhorrently wrong with you–”
“Shut up…”
Benjamin raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “I never thought you would find such a strong, irritating voice, you know. But I shouldn’t be surprised, assuming how much you probably scream when you’re with that disgusting comm–”
Without thinking, his hands shot through the bars, gripping at Benjamin’s naked throat. The metal rang loudly as the nobleman’s face slammed into the iron.
“I already killed a man today,” he growled, his nails digging into Benjamin’s neck. “Don’t think it would not give me great pleasure to rip out your tongue before I send you to the chopping block.”
The clanging of armor quickly grew closer before a strong pair of hands were on him, pulling him away from the man. His nails raked across his skin, drawing blood as he was yanked back. Benjamin hissed and winced, swiftly retreated back into the cell as he held his throat.
“Aryn, that’s enough,” Ser Donal commanded. “He will get what he’s owed soon. We must return before anyone finds out.”
He breathed through clenched teeth, and his hands ached to wrap themselves around his weasley, lying throat again. Gloved fingers tightened on him as he entertained the idea of fighting against the knight, but the more rational side of his mind broke through the cloud of violence. Taking a deep, shaky breath, he eased himself to Ser Donal’s side.
“You know, Benjamin,” he began. “I used to hate you. I used to be scared of you, with the way you embarrassed me, towered over me. But now, I just feel sorry for you. All you are is a tiny little man full of bitterness and insecurity. And I may not be perfect, but at least I have the balls to be truthful with myself. I only hope you can do the same before your time is up.”
Without another glance, he turned on his heel and strode out of the dungeon.
***
He stood on the opposite end of the platform from Aryn, next to Oliver. The wind was heavy and unrelenting, whipping cloaks across bodies with near painful force. It had been a long time since he’d seen an execution, not since the war had just started; he was fifteen at the time. Someone had tried to burn down the guard barracks in the middle circle in protest and ended up killing four men.
The boy had been younger than he was then.
But the person who kneeled at the chopping block today was not some dumb boy. It was the man who had tried to take everything away from him, who had stolen something from him and Aryn they would never get back. As a pair of Crownsguard pushed Benjamin to his knees, a pit of dread formed in his stomach when the nobleman turned and looked at him, a knowing expression on his dirty face.
“Lord Benjamin Poulter,” Aleksander’s voice boomed across the gathered crowd, stifling any anxious noise that had preceded it. “You have been charged and found guilty of treason, by orchestrating the assassination attempt of Prince Aryn Stewart.”
His green eyes were frozen to where Benjamin kneeled, watching as the man’s body trembled with cold and fear. The headsman lumbered forward, but Aleksander stepped up and intercepted him, reaching out a hand. No one in the crowd dared to speak as the hooded man handed the King his greatsword. He could feel his own breath halting within his chest, his heart beginning to race in macabre anticipation.
Aleksander positioned himself to the left of Benjamin, the tip of the greatsword resting on the wooden platform.
“Do you have any last words you wish to say?”
The nobleman’s gaze bore into the floor beneath him as the color drained from his face.
“I did not hire that man to kill the prince.”
The air felt like it had been ripped from his lungs as a wave of confusion slammed into him.
He’s just saying that…
“But I wish I would have,” he declared louder.
Gasps could be heard from within the crowd as a low buzz of protest began to grow louder and louder.
“This family is nothing but a bunch of liars, and dictators, and sinners!” he shouted. “And I thank whoever was brave enough to do it, because the Stewarts need to be erased, starting with that abhorrent brat of a prince–”
The Crownsguard came and shoved him back down onto the block as the crowd began to cry out in disbelief. His gaze shot over to Aleksander, whose jaw was clenched so tightly he was afraid it might break. The King’s grip on the greatsword tightened, and he moved to swing it overhead as Benjamin twisted his head to look up at him.
“I hope Farmond murders you all! Every last Ste–”
The blade came down with a sickening shunk as his final words were cut short. Dark crimson flowed from the stump of his neck like some sort of vampiric waterfall, spreading quickly in an ever-growing pool on the wooden platform. The crowd went dead silent once more as the nobleman’s head tumbled forward and onto the ground, landing with a wet thud.
“Clear the square,” Aleksander ordered. “This is over.”
Everyone in the crowd began to scatter like roaches back to their shops or homes as a horrible dread continued to bore into his stomach. A pair of guards grabbed Benjamin’s headless body and dragged it from the platform, but his attention was on Aryn. He was surprised to see that the prince’s expression was not one of shock, but of quiet anger and disappointment, as if he knew that Benjamin would say what he just did.
Aware that his stare was lingering too long, he moved it to Oliver, which did not help to settle his unease. The nobleman’s face was drained of color as he stared at Benjamin’s severed head, his amber eyes dancing wildly with racing thoughts. He supposed Oliver was just as shocked as he was, trying to make sense of it all.
“A lying bastard to the end,” he mumbled quietly, stepping closer to the nobleman as the wind picked up again. “You’d think in your final moments, you’d have some shame or humility.”
He was looking to make idle conversation, anything to cut through the growing tension in the air. But Oliver did not reciprocate. Instead he remained staring at Benjamin’s head.
“Oliver, what is it?” he prodded, turning his chin now to look directly upon him.
The nobleman shook his head, his brow furrowing. “No. You heard what he said. Those are the words of a man with nothing to lose.”
His heart sank into his stomach. “What are you implying?”
Amber eyes connected with his, the winter clouds casting dark, gloomy shadows over them as the wind howled.
“I don’t think he was lying.”
“And if he wasn’t?” he pressed, his throat turning bone-dry.
“Then we have bigger issues than Benjamin and his fat mouth,” Oliver declared gravely. “Whoever sent that assassin is still out there, and is a lot smarter than Poulter.”
His green eyes drifted back towards Aryn, who was now conversing lowly with Philip. Thoughts raced through his mind, weighing and rationalizing all of the information, and nausea formed deep in his gut as Benjamin’s final words now hung over him like an omen.